


Insomnia Café

by HalcyonStars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Author Castiel, Barista Gabriel, Castiel with glasses, Coffee Shops, Fan Dean, Grey-Asexual Castiel, M/M, Sleepy Castiel, Writer Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-12 23:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5685400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalcyonStars/pseuds/HalcyonStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sitting beneath a derelict apartment building was a small café. It was open until the most ludicrous hours of the morning, when all you were looking for was a nice cup of coffee and some gentle silence. </p>
<p>It wasn't often that you ran into company at what's been dubbed the Insomnia Cafe... but sometimes, unexpected company is just what you're looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insomnia Café

**Author's Note:**

> So it's taken me a while to finally post this, but I figured I'd just hurry up and do it because it's been sitting in my drafts for too long. I'm not entirely happy with it, but fingers crossed its not a total flop :)

Sitting beneath a derelict apartment building (whose name was entirely inapt, and was called _The Aureate)_ was a small café. In terms of aesthetic appeal… well, it had next to none. You were more likely to win the lottery than you were to find a set of matching furniture or floorboards without scuff marks.

In addition to the abraded floor that shrieked whenever you set foot on it, there were slightly lopsided coffee tables with mismatched coloured chairs. The tables were not askew enough to send caffeine cups tumbling off their edge, but their disproportioned legs were out just enough so that they rattled when you leaned your elbows on them.

The walls were an eggshell colour, and against all odds, were impeccably clean. The crystalline chandelier was a regal style that Castiel thought was more suited to Como house than it was to an old run-down café, but then again, nothing in the café made sense. Not the blue and yellow chairs or white tables or the one single window booth.

But it was charming in the way that it was quirky and no other coffee shop was like it – though that could have been because of its not too pleasing look. But for some reason, its scarcely shrouded ugliness made it more lovable. Maybe it was sympathy or an urge to invest some misplaced love into a place that could otherwise never be admired – especially not with those hideous floral armchairs.

So yes, the place was a dump, but _damn_ did they sell fine coffee.

If there was an embodiment of looks can be deceiving, it could be seen it that little café. The coffee was rich and filled the shop with a heady aroma of ground beans and frothed milk. The place was warm and inviting, and they served the best double shot espresso that Castiel had ever tasted. And being a writer, and therefore efficient, he drank _a_ _lot_ of them.

He often stayed up late into the night, brainstorming ideas and plotting out chapter summaries, and once he got the ball rolling, he found it difficult to stop. It was for that reason that he needed liquid energy to keep him awake into the early hours of the morning.

It also so happened that if he tried to go to sleep early, his brain would yell at him to get up and get on top of his latest novel. He had deadlines to meet, but apparently those deadlines only liked to be fulfilled in the night. And so rather than staying huddled on an uncomfortable armchair in his poorly lit apartment, he could go downstairs and huddle in the corner booth, one right next to a conveniently good lamp. It was how his routine usually went: coffee shop, four times a week, in the dead of night.

It’s where he was at that moment – the café that became known for its outstanding coffee as much as it was known for its ludicrously late closing hour, which earned it the unofficial name of _Insomnia Café –_ hunched over his laptop, black-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and scrutinising the words on his screen.

A steaming cup of coffee was placed on the table next to him, close enough that it was in reach but not too close that he would accidently knock it over. It was the perfect distance, and it was immensely satisfying to the pernickety voice in his head.

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

Gabriel sat down next to him and took a sip of Castiel’s coffee.

“Why do you brew it for me if you’re going to drink it yourself?”

“Because I own this place and you can’t tell me what to do.”

“Mature.”

Gabriel ignored him and looked at Castiel’s screen. “Oooo, spoilers, me likey.”

Castiel pushed at Gabriel’s shoulder, even as Gabriel craned his neck trying to read the words of the latest novel Castiel was working on. “Go away, you can’t read it yet.”

“But I _want to,”_ Gabriel drawled out like petulant and spoiled child, and Castiel thought _that_ was quite an apt description of Gabriel himself.

“You can wait like everyone else.”

“Don’t I get any perks for being your main gal?”

“You get the pleasure of my company.”

“ _Pfft_ ,” Gabriel scoffed, standing up. “I don’t get out of bed for that. Call me when you’re man enough to fulfil my needs, sweet cheeks.”

“ _Gabriel_ ,” Castiel warned.

“What?”

“Leave the coffee,” Castiel said slowly, looking pointedly over the rim of his glasses at where Gabriel’s hand was holding the cup.

“One day I’m going to introduce you to fun, Cassie.”

“Well bring a coffee when you do.”

Gabriel sighed dramatically as he walked around to the front counter, wiping it down for lack of anything better to do. His café was – despite the décor – _very_ popular… in the daytime. It wasn’t exactly busy with customers at midnight, and so Castiel got to experience Gabriel at his most chilled. Occasionally night-time business would bustle if drunkards were chasing sobriety on their way home from a pub at the crack of dawn, and sometimes Castiel would find himself in the company of a stressed-out college student working into the late hours to finish an assignment. But otherwise, it was deserted the time of night Castiel visited, and so he seldom run into anyone else.

Not to say it never happened.

“I swear, Castiel. What did I ever do to deserve your wrath? You’re almost as bad as _Dean._ God, there’s no one worse than _Dean_. I just wish he’d get the hint and never come back. Yuck!”

“Nice, Gabe,” came an unfamiliar voice, and Castiel found himself looking away from his screen to find it. A less well-adjusting mind might call Dean attractive, beautiful even, but Castiel being a writer was able to form a much better description of him. Save for the light dusting of freckles across his sun-kissed skin, his eyes were the first thing that drew Castiel’s attention; they were green like peridots, with golden flecks peppered around his pupils. His hair was cropped and spiked, and was a dirty blonde colour that looked mousy in the evening light. It was little quirks, such as the barely perceptible crook in his nose and the uneven layer of stubble across his jaw that kept him looking real, and not like something carved in Olympus’ throne room. He was truly handsome.

Castiel shifted in his seat.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you knew I was there,” Dean continued.

Gabriel huffed as if that was all the rebuttal needed, and promptly stuffed his mouth with a left over muffin from the day. When he spoke next, pieces of blueberry fell from his mouth.

“How’s my other resident insomniac?”

Dean shrugged off a leather jacket, revealing a green plaid shirt and well-rounded, attractive muscles underneath – which Castiel noted objectively, of course, being an author and all.

“Twelve-thirty in the morning and I’m looking at your ugly mug. Things could be better.”

“Time to drop the school-yard ‘I like you so I’m going to pull your pigtails, push you off the swing, and hurl insults at your transcendentally beautiful face’ bullshit. I like you, you clearly adore me, how ‘bout we cut to the chase. My apartment has enough custom leather to make McDonald’s look innocent and sound proof walls. ” Gabriel smirked, thrusting his hips forward obscenely in crude invitation. Castiel rolled his eyes at Gabriel’s antics.

“You’re joking right?” Dean asked, mildly disgusted.

Gabriel scoffed. “Of course I’m joking. I only have latex, I’m not a monster. I do have a sex swing I wanna take for a trial run though. How ‘bout it big boy?”

Dean mock gagged. “I think I’ll pass.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” Gabriel sighed, before throwing a dirty tea-towel over his shoulder and leaning casually on the particoloured counter. It was covered in a patterned laminate of rainbow flowers that looked like they belonged on 80’s disco pants. Gabriel called it psychedelic; Castiel called it a catastrophe. “What can I get for you?”

“Decaf. I don’t wanna be up too late.”

Gabriel looked at his watch questioningly. “Don’t call me Miss Cleo or anything, but I think it’s a little late for that.”

“Yeah yeah, smartass, you know what I mean.”

“Coming right up.”

Dean leant forward on the benchtop and began drumming his fingers, the sound hollow and faint on the plastic. He had one leg crossed behind the other in a relaxed stance. It was one that showed he was comfortable and well-acquainted with the shop. Dean’s casual observation of his surroundings led his eyes to Castiel. He looked him up and down appraisingly with a smirk gracing his lips, not unkindly.

“You must be Cas,” Dean yelled over the grinding of the coffeemaker.

“Cas?”

“Yeah, Castiel. Gabe talks about you all the time. His ‘favourite customer.’”

Castiel tilted his head – the kind of tilt that Gabriel mocked him for, saying he looked exactly like his pet jack russel, Loki.

“Really?” Castiel asked, vaguely hearing the _click_ of the machine turning off. “He doesn’t mock me tirelessly with unwarranted insults and barely veiled contempt?” 

Dean laughed, a deep rumbling noise that rocked his body and interrupted the rhythm of his tapping fingers. “Nah, he leaves all that for me. Isn’t that right, Gabe?”

Gabriel slid a readily made, small cup of decaf to Dean. “Hells yes!” Gabriel’s watch beeped insistently, a sound Castiel would describe as melodic if not for its shrieking cadence. “Gotta run, boys. I got myself a hot date.”

“What kind of date begins at almost one in the morning?” Castiel chimed in.

Gabriel smirked deviously. “The kind that starts in a strip club and ends in a jail cell. Don’t wait up for me. You got the keys, Cas?” 

Castiel dived into his pants-pocket and rattled the keys. “I’ll lock up for you.”

“Thanks, babe. I love you.”

Castiel hummed dubiously.

Dean walked up to Castiel, whom was still sitting at his booth with a fast cooling coffee and standstill word count. “Do you mind?” he asked, sitting across the booth at Castiel’s keen nod. Contrary to his usual preferences, he quite welcomed Dean’s company. Eagerly, even.

Castiel was not known for his outstanding ability to pick up on social cues, but the way an easy half-smirk settled onto Dean’s lips, arm casual strung over the back of the booth bench as he nestled into the seat, legs parted coolly… its meaning was clear even to Castiel. Dean was so very plainly in his element, a flirt, and against all logic, Castiel found himself blushing under the attention. It was Dean’s mien of nonchalance though, the playful smile and non-imposing posture which made him seem friendly and harmless, rather than conceited and like he was looking Castiel like a piece of meat. It was a look Castiel was well acquainted with, especially since he was friends with Gabriel, who practically gave that look to anything that was human and moving.

 Castiel fiddled with his glasses, pushing them down his nose and towards his cheeks.

“So, what’s keeping you up at…” Dean looked at his watch with bleary eyes, “… too early.”

Castiel chuckled, _how sleep even foils the greatest,_ he thought, taking a gentle sip from his cup.

“Searching for inspiration.” At Dean’s questioning look, he continued. “I’m a writer.”

“Sweet. Anything I would have heard of?”

“I’m not sure. I write under the name C.J. Novak.”

Being quite a popular writer and therefore accustomed to meeting fans, he had experienced all kinds of strange encounters. Sometimes at book signings he’d come across a timid fan who would smile at Castiel and say absolutely nothing, other times he’d see a young teen who would break down and cry and all he could think to do with his vast vocabulary and general social ineptitude concerning anything that wasn’t a character he’d written on paper was awkwardly pat their hand. Of all his experiences though, from the bold and brazen to the equally as charming shy ones – who Castiel won’t lie, appealed to his own sense of coyness – he hadn’t ever gotten the response he received from Dean.

Namely a face full of coffee, straight from Dean’s mouth.

“Shit!” Dean said, and Castiel saw the sincerity in his face through the coffee dripping over lenses of his glasses.

Between one blink and the next Dean was rushing out of his seat and dropping none to gracefully next to Castiel. “I’m so sorry,” Dean muttered continually, using a napkin to gently clean his drink off Castiel’s face. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to do that.”

Dean wiped his glasses, blurring Castiel’s vision as the coffee turned the glass a milky brown colour. He would have no way to clean them with the complementing spray and wipe at home, but he found himself strangely okay with it when Dean carefully rested the specs over Cas’ nose.

Castiel, all too happy to help minimise the mess, used his already dirty-damp sleeves to wipe down the wet table in circular motions and licked his lips clean just as Dean’s deftly soft fingers skated the napkin over them – it was, he deduced, only because of his insatiable need to chase the caffeine and the uncomfortable feeling of dripping coffee on his lips that led to the coinciding of the two.

Yes. He would chock it up to the requisite for caffeine, insomniac deliria, and the general unbearable feeling for a borderline neat-freak of being messy and sticky when a solution was so easily available. 

Or, if Gabriel was to be trusted (but really, who in their right mind would?), it was a side effect of his chronic impeccable ability to avoid all things that would get him laid – which was impressive, even for Castiel who had little interest in such matters.

Dean continued down to Castiel’s chin with jerky hands, shaking with embarrassment and nerves as they swept over his stubble before tossing aside the sodden brown napkin. With no passable paper towels left, Dean took to wiping down Cas’ sweater with his hands, a technique he passed off as ineffective and quickly as Castiel deemed it quietly nice – warm and comfortable and a far cry from the way he usual shied away from contact.

It was as Castiel studied Dean’s eyes, full of Fall-time pastures and apology that he silently noted, not for the first time that night, how attractive Dean really was.

Unlike Gabriel, it wasn’t his urge to sleep with virtually everyone that kept Dean’s attractiveness on his mind, but was quite the contrary. It was that Castiel hardly _ever_ found _anyone_ attractive at all that kept his attentions focussed on Dean. It was rare that Castiel felt attracted to a person (and he _was_ attracted to Dean, he was blunt enough to admit that), and it seemed Dean was a rare exception to the rule.

It was ineffable really, as much things were with Castiel’s sexuality.  

Dean wiped his own hands on his tattered tartan shirt, seemingly scolding himself for thinking the idea a good one. He cringed, his former coquettish demeanour long gone. 

“I’ll pay to have that cleaned.”

Castiel looked down at his sweater. It sustained no worse damage than it had when he occasionally fell asleep whilst writing and spilt coffee on himself. “It’s no problem, Dean.”

“C’mon, Cas-”

“I insist.”

Dean huffed out a depreciative laugh, though it seemed he realised there’d be no breaking Castiel’s resolve.

“Man, all the times I imagined meeting you, it never went down like this.”

Castiel balked at that, searching for Dean’s eyes even as he looked down with rose tinted cheeks.

“Excuse me?”

Dean looked up from Castiel’s coffee-flecked sweater (the blue one, because for some strange reason Castiel always had his best ideas when he was wearing blue) and into his puzzled eyes.

“I’ve read all your books.”

“Are you making a joke?” Castiel asked, not because he doubted his own literary capabilities – he was quite a popular and affluent author – but because Dean didn’t strike him as his typical fan. With his threadbare shirt with stubbornly clingy lint on the sleeves, tatty collar and missing buttons, not to mention the black crescent of dirt beneath his short stubby nails, hands looking like they belonged beneath a car, not around a book.

But that was part of why Castiel loved his job so much. Dean’s smell could have as easily come from a leather-bound book than from his leather jacket; his fingers callused from flipping rough-papered pages than laborious tinkering.

Cas could reach so many people with his words, with the actions of his characters, and anyone – even someone whom you might otherwise not suspect – could lose themselves within the world he created in his novels. He supposed that was also what was great about his fans. They came in all shapes and forms, and Dean was just another example of that.

“Nah man, I’m serious. Your stuff is awesome. Best thing I’ve read since Hitchhiker’s Guide or The Hobbit.”

Castiel blushed, still shy even after many book signings. He never did get used to compliments. There was a certain anonymity that came with writing, something he was immensely grateful for, but even with the long-nights spent alone, face aglow with fluorescent computer screen light and too much time at the local library to seem anything but suspicious, it wasn’t _total_ anonymity.

It was why Cas was so flustered.

“I appreciate the flattery, but my works don’t hold a candle to them.”

While Cas was caught up in bashfulness Dean seemed to have overcome his own, shuffling excitedly in his seat and causing the yellow rubber to squirm with him.

“Are you serious?” Dean asked, almost as if he was offended for Castiel about the way Castiel was talking about himself. “ _Pale Night_ was the first thing I read in ten years that wasn’t a car mag or Busty Asian- um, nothing,” Dean cleared his throat. “Man, it was so different, you know. Fresh.”

Castiel nodded along as Dean detailed his favourite parts of the plot, his favourite characters, the ones he hated with a ruthless passion that made Castiel proud as an author, proud that he could instigate that kind of reaction. It wasn’t a hated character that was an author’s biggest failure – it was one that inspired no feelings at all.

As Dean spoke on, Castiel smiled. _Pale Night_ was the first sustained work of fiction he’d ever written, back in High School, between classes and every free minute at home when he should have been working on his essays or calculus homework. It was ironic that writing what he loved and neglecting his English homework was the reason his English teacher told him he’d never amount to much. She’d never bothered to remember his name – only referred to him as ‘ _you!’,_ or on the rare occasion of parent-teacher conference, _‘your son’_ – which was why she was morbidly flustered when she came face-to-face with Castiel at his first book signing, her copy of _Pale Night_ crinkled with use, dog-eared and traitorously revealing how many times it had been read. She hadn’t been able to pick up her jaw long enough to actually _say_ anything to Castiel, so he had signed her copy with _‘Thank you for being such a great support, Miss Naomi’_ (he wasn’t sure if he was being derisive or the bigger person). 

It had been a great day, one of the best in his career.

Though he supposed tonight was pretty good as well.

Castiel picked up his coffee and took a sip. He cringed at its taste, lukewarm. He put the cup down, further than far enough to be the perfect distance. It was unneeded.

They went on like that for some time, Dean telling him how his favourite of Castiel’s books was a dark dystopian superhero novel called _Arcanum._ Dean loved how imperfect the protagonist, Jo, was. She was crude, rude in the way that made her funny, and a total badass. She made mistakes, partook in the occasional binge of self-pity and self-loathing, and wore old leather jackets and broken boots.

Castiel liked her because she was relatable, not some pinup of perfection and spandex-clad hero that there had been enough of.

Dean liked her because despite the minor detail that she was in fact a superhero – and therefore not human – she was _human._ In all the ways that mattered. Though Dean admitted it shyly, he said Jo reminded him of himself.

Castiel liked her a little more after that.

They went through three more hours of the cursor on Castiel’s laptop blinking, an unchanging word count, four more cups of coffee (in which – after a relatively small and completely juvenile argument about who could operate the coffee machine better, a minor wrestling match to prove their worth, and equal measures of failure – Dean and Castiel admitted that brewing coffee was harder than it looked and that they should thank Gabriel more often) and a text from Gabriel telling him that he had been arrested for public indecency and needed to be bailed out.

They laughed together over that, exchanging Arabica breathe and experimentally (regrettably?) shared a tall mug of _cherry-cream swirl with mint choc chips and sprinkles_ frappe. They were drunk on sugar and sleep deprivation, and Castiel found himself all too attentive of Dean’s ridiculous cherry-stained and sprinkled lips to be anything other than indecent.

It was 5am when Castiel started to doze so much that he’d shut his eyes sitting upright, and reopen them to find his world tilted and the feeling of leather under his cheek. He apologised, both for falling asleep on Dean _and_ for drooling on his shoulder (if the wet patch was anything to go by), to which Dean only chuckled and said he didn’t mind. He sat up, licked a stay bit of whipped cream from the left corner of his mouth and rubbed away the line of drool from the right side with the back of his hand.

He shut his laptop – loose at its hinges and letters half rubbed away from seasoned tapping – resigning for the night.

“I’d best be going,” Castiel said, strangely disappointed. It was a funny old world, he thought, that someone as appreciative of solitude as himself and with people skills that could only ever be called rusty, was disappointed to go home and leave someone’s company.

“I don’t want you driving if you’re tired. Let me give you a ride,” Dean offered, and Cas tried not to smile at Dean’s frown when he refused his offer.

“It’s not necessary. I live upstairs.”

“Two bestsellers and you live in this dump?”

Castiel laughed, thinking of the double power-outlet near the far window, one that his lamp was plugged into and the other for his laptop. “It has everything I need.”

“Even the nest of rats in the store room?”

“How do you know about that?”

Dean smirked. “Guess who lives on the third floor?”

It was on their way up the concrete stairwell, hands sliding along a rickety, wood-rotted balustrade (the elevator had long since been out of order) that they discussed how strange it was that they had never run into each other before – although avoiding your neighbours was a suitable reaction to living in _The Aureate,_ where residents tended to be shady at best.

Dean rested a supporting hand on Castiel’s lower back, aiding him as he stumbled up the stairs, lazy feet catching on the corners of the steps that proved to be too mighty for his lethargic muscles. Dean slowly removed his hand as they reached the landing.

Castiel hitched his laptop bag over his shoulder, readjusting the strap as he turned to face Dean. They had reached his door on the seventh floor, the top floor.

“I thought you said you lived on the third floor?” he questioned slowly, tasting the words on his sleep-befuddled tongue.

“I thought I’d walk you up.”

Castiel flushed, something his stoicism wasn’t happy about, but that the butterflies in his chest preened at. No, butterflies were too shy and gentle to describe the thumping feeling in his chest, it was more a flock of birds beating their wings against his ribcage. He cleared his throat and hoped the pathetically poor lighting in the hallway hid his blush.

“How very gentlemanly of you, Mr. Winchester,” he murmured.  

Dean grabbed Castiel’s fingers, raising them to his mouth and placing a gentle kiss to the back of his hand. “My pleasure, Mr. Novak.” Dean winked, somewhat diminishing the chivalry of the gesture in a way that made Cas roll his eyes and made Dean laugh.

Castiel yawned, his eyelids sleepy and he fumbled to get his key into the hole. “Goodnight, Dean,” he smiled.

Dean’s gaze bore into him and his lips twitched slightly, just enough warning for when Dean stepped up to him, kissing the corner of Castiel’s mouth, the picture of courteousness. The kiss – for what it was worth for the few lingering seconds it lasted – was warm. Dean’s lips were soft and sticky, tasting of saccharine frappes and mint. Castiel’s heart fluttered something wild in his chest, especially when Dean grinned at him.

Castiel stood there, the picture of a dumbstruck idiot with his glasses crooked on his face, Dean’s nose having dislodged them during the polite and chaste kiss. 

Castiel broke into a giggle – and that was as great a sign as any that he was delirious with the need to sleep, because Castiel didn’t _giggle_. His voice was usually much too deep a timbre for that.

“ _Dean_ , I drooled there before. You kissed my saliva,” he snickered. Sleep deprivation did not an intelligent and well-spoken author make, and he hazily figured he’d better get to bed before he made _too_ much of a fool of himself. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Dean mutter something about him being ‘cute.’

“Well I better get used to a little spit if I wanna kiss you good and proper on our date next week.”

“Are you asking me out on a date and assuming I’ll say yes? That’s very presumptuous of you, Dean.”

“Well, _is it_ a yes?”

Castiel hummed. “Okay, I’ll humour you.”

“I’ll call you in the morning,” Dean paused and looked at his watch, then looked at Castiel, then cringed, “maybe in the afternoon, and we’ll set something up.”

“You don’t have my number?” Castiel posed it as a statement, but it was a question.

“I programmed it in your phone already. Sneaky hands,” Dean said, waving his fingers.

“Hmm, I can’t wait to see what else they can do.”

Dean smiled, full of teeth and laugh lines, and for the second time, straightened Castiel’s askew glasses. He tucked a wayward stray of hair behind Castiel’s ear, before turning and walking down the hallway as Castiel pushed his door open. “Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” he repeated, closing his door to the sight of Dean jogging down the stairs.

 

Nothing much happened for the characters in Castiel’s story that night. Their world remained unchanged for one more day, but Castiel’s on the other hand… now that had changed for the better.


End file.
